Alison McCabe
Mother
Take me to the museum.
To the painting no one but you
stops to see. Let me watch you
settle down, breathe, slow. Here
you stop talking, stare—
at what? Figures, lines, color?
No matter—you take shape
and I can breathe. No longer
needing to attend to you, mirror
your moves, stay close.
You stand before
a small, untitled painting.
Others come and go.
I’ll sit a while watching you.